Chapter 15: Coincidences
The amber glow of the whiskey bottles behind the bar cast long, liquid shadows across the worn wood. Matthew traced the condensation on his glass of Pinot Noir, the cool dampness a stark contrast to the heat prickling the back of his neck. Across the small, sticky table, Elizabeth Lawrence watched him, her sharp hazel eyes missing nothing. A half-finished gin martini sat before her, the olive skewered like an accusation.
"So," she said, her voice pitched low beneath the murmur of other patrons, the occasional clink of ice. "Rossi. What did she really want? Beyond the 'routine questions' you mentioned on the phone." She leaned in slightly, strands of her dark bob catching the low light. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost when you hung up yesterday."
Matthew took a deliberate sip of wine. The smooth fruitiness felt like ash on his tongue. He’d wrestled with telling her all day. Elizabeth wasn’t just a colleague; she was his anchor through messy postings in Delhi’s chaos and Dublin’s drizzle. She had a bullshit detector calibrated to military precision. "She implied… heavily… that Jake’s disappearance wasn’t just him flaking off to Bali for an indefinite bender." He kept his voice flat, diplomatic. "Said he wasn’t the type. That his family’s frantic. Asked about his 'state of mind' before he vanished. Specifically about… me."
Elizabeth’s eyebrow arched, a silent question mark. "His state of mind about you? Why?"
Matthew looked down at his glass again. "She knew, Liz. Knew he and I were… involved. Casually. Before Joe." Saying it aloud felt like admitting fault. "Asked if Jake seemed jealous. Possessive. If there was friction."
Elizabeth whistled softly through her teeth. "Christ, Matt. That’s direct. Rossi’s not chasing dead-end leads. She thinks something happened to him. And she thinks you might know what. Or who." She paused, letting the implication hang in the smoky air. "Where does Joe fit into Rossi’s little theory? Or is she just casting a wide net?"
This was the precipice. Matthew felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the echo of Joe’s desperate embrace last night warring with the chilling symmetry he couldn’t shake. He took a breath, the scent of ancient wood and juniper berries sharp in his nostrils. "Joe doesn’t fit into her theory. Not directly. But last night…" He recounted the dinner, the appearance of Chris Miller, the name Conrad Peyton dropping like a stone into their date night. He described Joe’s momentary panic, the elaborate grief, the story of the med student who impulsively vanished to Rome, luggage abandoned, never seen again. "Just… gone. Like Jake."
Elizabeth’s expression shifted from concern to stark alarm. She set her martini glass down with a precise click. "Matt. Stop. Rewind. Joe’s ex-boyfriend, Conrad, vanished without a trace after an 'impulsive trip'? And now Jake, someone you were seeing who Joe clearly saw as a threat… vanishes the exact same way? While Joe, conveniently, swoops in?"
"It’s not convenient, Liz," Matthew protested, the diplomat surfacing, trying to smooth the jagged edges. "He was devastated about Conrad. He told me, long before Jake was even in the picture, how wrecked he was by that loss. It fits."
"Does it?" Elizabeth’s voice was low, intense, cutting through the bar’s hum. "Or does it fit a pattern? Think! What do we know about Joe Goldberg? He’s charming, attentive, writes poetry, manages a bookstore cafe. Seems like the ultimate wounded romantic. But Matt, beneath that? He’s intense. Possessive. Remember that fundraiser where Darren from Political Affairs flirted with you? Joe materialized out of thin air, put his hand on your back like a claim staked, and steered you away. It wasn’t playful. It was territorial. And the way he talks about people who hurt you? There’s a coldness there. A righteousness."
Matthew flinched, remembering Joe’s quiet fury when mentioning Jake’s perceived callousness. "He’s protective. After what happened with Conrad…"
"Protective, or pathological?" Elizabeth countered, leaning so close he could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. "Two men vanish. Both connected to Joe’s romantic orbit. Both vanish the same way. Both leave baffled investigators in their wake. That’s not coincidence. That’s a signature." She lowered her voice further, barely a whisper now. "Serial monogamy shouldn't end with serial disappearances, Matthew."
The word signature hit him with physical force. He saw Conrad’s abandoned luggage morphing into Jake’s unanswered texts. Joe’s raw grief over dinner twisting into the image of his possessive grip last night. You’re my reality. The cold dread that had seeped into him outside the Japanese restaurant flooded back, icy and undeniable. His hand trembled slightly, sloshing wine onto the table. He dabbed at it clumsily with a napkin. "What are you saying, Liz? Seriously?"
"I’m saying Rossi isn’t the only one who should be asking hard questions," Elizabeth said firmly, her gaze unwavering. "I’m saying you need to step back. Way back. Look at this with clear eyes, not the ones that see the charming boyfriend who brings you coffee and remembers your favorite obscure playwright. There’s another side to Joe. A dark one. And it’s pointing directly at these vanished men. Don’t let yourself be next in that line."
From the shadowed corner booth, partially obscured by a large ficus plant and a vintage poster for a long-closed jazz club, Joe Goldberg watched. He hadn’t planned on being here. He’d told Matthew he was catching up on inventory at the bookstore. But the gnawing anxiety after Chris’s reappearance, the flicker of suspicion he’d seen in Matthew’s eyes, had driven him out. He needed to know. Needed to see who Matthew turned to.
He’d spotted them almost immediately upon entering, finding a vantage point that offered a distorted but clear view of their reflection in the large, tarnished mirror behind the bar. He’d nursed a single club soda with lime for forty minutes, the ice long melted, while Matthew recounted the encounter with Rossi, and then… Conrad. The name echoed in the hollow space behind his ribs. He saw the alarm on Elizabeth Lawrence’s face, the way Matthew leaned into her words, how the diplomat’s careful composure cracked, spilling wine like blood on the table.
He couldn't hear every word over the ambient noise, but he didn't need to. The body language was a damning transcript. Matthew’s hunched shoulders, the nervous dab at the spill. Elizabeth’s intensity, her finger jabbing the air slightly for emphasis. Her sharp features, usually softened by genuine warmth for Matthew, were etched with skepticism, hardening into certainty as she spoke. He saw the moment his name formed on her lips. Saw the chilling clarity in her expression as she leaned in, delivering her verdict.
Signature. He didn’t need lip-reading for that concept. He felt it land on Matthew like a physical blow. Saw the colour drain from his lover’s face.
Elizabeth Lawrence. Matthew’s confidante. His anchor. The voice of reason he trusted implicitly. She wasn't just skeptical anymore. She’d connected the dots. Conrad. Jake. Him. She saw the pattern. She recognized the signature. And she was pouring that poison straight into Matthew’s ear, shattering the fragile trust Joe had fought so hard to rebuild last night with tenderness and carefully crafted grief.
A cold, familiar rage, clean and surgical, began to replace the swirling panic inside him. It started in his gut, a hard knot of ice, and spread outwards, steadying his trembling hands. He watched Elizabeth’s lips move, shaping words meant to destroy everything he’d built with Matthew. Words that painted him not as the devoted protector, but as the monster lurking in the shadows.
She saw too much. She understood too well.
Matthew was nodding now, slowly, reluctantly, his eyes wide with dawning, horrified comprehension as he stared at his wine. Elizabeth reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand over his trembling one. A gesture of solidarity. Against him.
The club soda sat forgotten. The ambient noise faded to a distant buzz. All Joe saw was the threat. Elizabeth Lawrence. Beautiful, intelligent, fiercely loyal Elizabeth. Matthew’s rock. His safe harbor.
She couldn't stay.
A new kind of focus settled over Joe, cold and absolute. The path forward was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. Eliminate the threat. Protect Matthew. Protect what was his. The details would need work – timing, method, the careful construction of another necessary absence – but the decision was made. It was the only way to silence the doubt, to erase the pattern she’d so clearly outlined.
He watched them a moment longer, committing the image of their closeness, their shared fear of him, to memory. Fuel. Then, moving with quiet precision, he slid a twenty under his glass, stood up, and melted back into the deeper shadows near the restrooms, unseen. He needed air. He needed to plan. Elizabeth Lawrence had just signed her own warrant. She needed to disappear. Before she made Matthew disappear from him.
The next morning, sunlight sliced through the towering windows of the UN Delegates' Lounge, casting long rectangles across the polished marble floor. Matthew stirred his third espresso, the sharp aroma failing to cut through the fog of Elizabeth’s warnings and the chilling echo of the investigator’s questions. The clatter of fine china and the murmur of multilingual diplomacy felt distant, muffled. He traced the rim of his cup, seeing not the skyline view, but Joe’s wounded eyes in the restaurant, then Elizabeth’s intense, fearful gaze across the sticky bar table.
"Morning, Sterling." Ambassador Tony Fitzpatrick’s voice, smooth and authoritative, jolted him back. Fitzpatrick slid into the chair opposite, radiating effortless power in a perfectly tailored navy suit, his silver hair catching the light. He placed his own coffee cup down with a decisive click. "You look like you wrestled the Security Council agenda all night and lost. Rough one?"
Matthew forced a tired smile. "Something like that, Mr. Ambassador. Just… personal stuff. Unsettled."
"Ah. The perils of New York." Fitzpatrick gave him a knowing look, a flicker of something unspoken – understanding, perhaps a shared recognition of complicated lives – passing between them. "Listen, I need your sharp mind in Geneva next week. The mission’s prepping for the Human Rights Council session on digital surveillance. Your counterterrorism background is perfect. Think you can swing it? Three days." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze direct. "Could be a good breather. Change of scene."
Geneva. Switzerland. An ocean away. The word felt like a life raft tossed into choppy water. Matthew’s breath caught. Distance. Space to unravel Jake, Conrad, Joe… without Joe’s intense presence clouding his judgment. He didn’t believe Joe could hurt anyone; the thought was monstrous, ridiculous. Yet, Elizabeth’s stark analysis – signature – had burrowed deep, a persistent, unwelcome splinter. This trip was escape. Sanity. A chance to think clearly, far from Joe’s captivating charm and increasingly suffocating devotion.
"That sounds… incredibly timely, sir," Matthew managed, the relief genuine, washing over him like cool water. "The session’s critical. I’d be grateful for the opportunity." He met Fitzpatrick’s steady gaze, the subtext hanging clear: Get me out of here. "When do we leave?"
Fitzpatrick smiled, a quick, efficient curve of his lips. "Monday. Briefing pack’s in your inbox." He stood, clapping Matthew lightly on the shoulder, the contact brief but charged. "Pack warm. And try to get some rest before then, Sterling. Sharper mind, remember?" He moved off, a wave of focused energy cutting through the lounge.
Matthew watched him go, the prospect of Geneva solidifying into a tangible lifeline. He could breathe again. He’d tell Joe tonight. Frame it purely as work, essential. Joe would understand. He had to understand.
The scent of Earl Grey tea and old paper hung thick in Joe’s small, book-crammed living room that evening. Matthew paced near the window overlooking the bustling street below, the city lights painting shifting patterns on his face. "So, Fitzpatrick sprung it on me this morning," he said, trying to keep his tone light, matter-of-fact. "Geneva. Three days. That Human Rights Council session on digital surveillance. My old counterterrorism stuff is suddenly relevant again. We leave Monday." He turned, offering a tentative smile. "Sudden, I know. But it’s a big opportunity."
Joe stood frozen by the sagging sofa, a half-folded sweater in his hands. Geneva. The word hit him like a physical blow, a shard of ice driven straight into his chest cavity. His lungs seized. He’s leaving. Running. She did this. She and Fitzpatrick. The cozy room suddenly felt suffocating, the rows of books like silent, accusing witnesses. They’re pulling him away. They’re stealing him. He forced air into his lungs, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and carefully placed the sweater down, smoothing the fabric with trembling fingers he hoped Matthew wouldn’t notice.
"That’s… amazing news, Matt," he said, the words tasting like ash. He manufactured a smile, the muscles in his face straining against the effort. He walked towards Matthew, reaching out to take his hands. "Seriously. Fitzpatrick trusts you. That’s huge." His thumbs rubbed circles on Matthew’s knuckles, a practiced gesture of tenderness. "Three days isn’t long. You’ll crush it. Knock their diplomatic socks off." Inside, the cold rage crystallized into something hard and sharp. Elizabeth’s face flashed in his mind – her sharp eyes, her warning words in the bar. Fitzpatrick’s confident stance. Enemies. Working together.
Matthew relaxed slightly under his touch, misinterpreting the tension. "You’re sure you’re okay with it? It’s short notice."
"Of course!" Joe’s voice was a fraction too bright. He squeezed Matthew’s hands, then released them to gesture dismissively. "Don’t be silly. This is your career. Your world. I’ll just… miss you. A lot." He managed another smile, brittle at the edges. "Plus, think of the cheese and chocolate you’ll bring back. Bribery material." He turned away, busying himself unnecessarily with a stack of books on the coffee table, needing to hide the storm in his eyes. Geneva. It wasn’t just distance. It was vulnerability. Matthew, away from his watchful protection, surrounded by people like Fitzpatrick, poisoned by Elizabeth’s lies. The image of Matthew boarding that plane felt like an abandonment, a betrayal meticulously orchestrated by those who sought to destroy what they had.
He straightened a crooked spine on a poetry collection, his knuckles white. The decision, cold and absolute, settled over him. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t risk Matthew slipping away, his mind turned against him by that viper Elizabeth and her silver-haired accomplice. The trip was the catalyst. He had to act before Monday. Protect Matthew. Remove the threats. Permanently. Elizabeth first. Then Fitzpatrick. They were no longer obstacles; they were active aggressors in the war for Matthew’s soul. He turned back, the mask of supportive concern firmly back in place, but behind it, the gears of his resolve ground with terrifying precision. "So," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "tell me about the agenda?"
Matthew rubbed the back of his neck, the tension from the Ambassador’s Lounge and the bar with Elizabeth still knotted between his shoulders. "Honestly? It’s classic Fitzpatrick – sprung it fast, light on specifics." He offered a wry, tired smile, moving away from the window towards Joe’s worn armchair. "He knows I can navigate the counter-terrorism angle blindfolded, so he’s trusting me to just... handle it. Run point on the surveillance ethics debate. Very much ‘follow my lead’ territory. Typical Tony efficiency."
He sank into the chair, the old springs groaning softly. The lamplight caught the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "He’s all business on this, Joe. Deadly serious." He met Joe’s gaze, holding it, willing him to understand the subtext, the reassurance. "Remember what you said about him, that night after the Met gala? When I came home buzzing about the new trade initiative he greenlit?" Matthew paused, the memory of tangled sheets and Joe’s possessive warmth surfacing. "You joked he probably drafted policy proposals in his sleep. You called him a ‘walking UN agenda.’" He managed a small, genuine chuckle. "You weren’t wrong. That’s Fitzpatrick. Pure, relentless focus. This trip? It’s just that. Work. Nothing else."
Joe watched him, the city lights painting shifting patterns on his face. Matthew’s words – the admission of ignorance about the minutiae, the easy invocation of their shared intimacy, the deliberate framing of Fitzpatrick as a work automaton – landed like balm on the raw, seething wound Elizabeth had opened. He trusts me enough to be honest about the uncertainty. He remembers what I said. He’s telling me Fitzpatrick is irrelevant to us. The cold knot of panic in Joe’s chest loosened, fractionally. The image of Matthew and Fitzpatrick on a Geneva balcony, conspiring, softened, blurred by Matthew’s weary sincerity and the potent memory of that night – their night, tangled and breathless, where Joe’s jealous barb had been met with Matthew’s laughter and dismissive kiss.
"You’re right," Joe conceded, his voice losing its brittle edge, smoothing into something resembling calm. He crossed the small space, perching on the arm of Matthew’s chair. His hand found Matthew’s hair, fingers tangling gently in the dark strands. "He is just an agenda with legs." He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Matthew’s temple, inhaling the scent of his shampoo mingled with the faint ozone tang of the city. "And you’re brilliant at handling agendas." He forced warmth into the words. "It’s good. Important. Go. Shine."
Internally, the gears shifted. Fitzpatrick was irrelevant. A distraction. Matthew had chosen him, Joe, in that vulnerable moment, invoking their intimacy to dismiss the Ambassador’s shadow. The trust was there, fragile but present. Elizabeth, however… Her poison was deliberate. Calculated. She had sat in that dark bar and deliberately painted him a monster, trying to shatter Matthew’s faith. She’d seen the pattern, named it, and aimed to destroy him. Matthew might have pushed Fitzpatrick from his mind tonight, thanks to Joe’s careful guidance and their shared history, but Elizabeth’s insidious words would fester if left unchecked. She was the active infection. She was the one whispering doubts, the one Matthew turned to instead of him.
Joe rested his forehead against Matthew’s, closing his eyes. The rage simmered, redirected, purified into cold purpose. He would trust Matthew. He would believe him about Fitzpatrick. He would focus on being the perfect, supportive partner while Matthew was in Geneva. But Elizabeth Lawrence? Her time was running out. The echo of her voice in that bar, sharp and certain – signature – solidified his resolve. He would handle her. Permanently. Before Matthew returned. Before she could utter another corrosive word.
He kept his forehead pressed to Matthew’s, the city’s hum a distant thrum outside the window, already mapping the steps, the timing, the necessary silence. Elizabeth needed to disappear.